24

IAGO

Mars Day, the twenty-fifth day of the month of Nion

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

S everal days later I made my way to Jairo’s villa. I wanted to examine all my models. I had left traces of other identities in them that I alone could interpret. They were like an external hard drive—a backup memory that I could turn to in situations like the current one and which enabled me to free up some space in my brain.

I went down the staircase and found my brother in his workshop, engraving small pieces of gold he would then link together into a necklace identical to the one his mother used to wear. This was the space in which Jairo worked on his most prized pieces. Not his war models, but objects made with precious metals, and sculptures from different materials: bronze, clay, and occasionally marble. Some of the pieces were covered with a cloth, because Jairo was a perfectionist and didn’t allow them to be seen until they were finished. I walked past, ignoring them.

“Have you remembered our first years together yet?” Jairo asked without looking up at me. He was concentrating on giving the perfect curve to the back of a puma devouring an eagle.

Which role will each of us interpret this time—puma or eagle?

“I remember you were a bastard, and Lür had to donate his seed because your putative father was as sterile as you’ve turned out to be.”

He didn’t even let me finish the sentence. His hand curled into a claw, which was crushing my windpipe. “Let’s make a few things clear, Urko—”

I grabbed his testicles and twisted them hard until he let go of my throat.

“Let’s clarify a few other things, Nagorno.” I squeezed even harder. “This is for encouraging an amnesiac ex-alcoholic to have a drink, an irresponsible act on the part of a longevo like you. It could have revealed our status in the worst possible way.” I saw that he was about to collapse, but there was still one outstanding matter to be cleared up, so I gave one last twist, the most painful one. “And this is for lying to me about Adriana Alameda.”

“I did it to protect you,” he managed to whisper.

“To protect me? From what, if you wouldn’t mind telling me?”

“You know. From the butterflies in the stomach and the sleepless nights. How many more years does she have to live? Seventy, maximum? I don’t have time for any more depressed widows or widowers in the family. We have enough with Lyra.”

“No, that’s not it. There’s something more.”

He considered my comment for a second and, to my amazement, opted for honesty. “You’re the engine that drives our research. I need you to be focused. Do me the favor of not falling in love like a common efímero , if you don’t mind.”

“That decision has absolutely nothing to do with you, Brother. Go back to the steppes to torture all living creatures, if that’s what you need, but if you’re looking to do battle with me, then war it will be. Is that clear?”

“It’s . . . clear,” he stammered in a strangled voice.

I let go and, turning my back on him, strode out of his workshop in the direction of the hall with the models.

“In any case, I can’t understand why you’re so concerned for a pair of testicles that have borne so little fruit.”

Where Nagorno was concerned, it was always necessary to set the boundaries; otherwise, he might think he could make my life impossible again.

“Oh, and thanks, Brother, for coming to rescue me in San Francisco. It was a gesture I won’t forget for a long time. Even if you did it to protect your blessed research.”

How wrong I was.

About everything.

Who was going to tell me that, hidden under a delicate cloth of the finest silk, the clay bust of a young woman with a scar that scored her forehead and one eyebrow had been party to our conversation? If someone had told me that back then, incredulous, I would have denied it a thousand times, and I would have been mistaken a thousand times.

As I walked away down the villa’s marble corridors, I heard the solitary echo of my footsteps. And then, after the passage of so much time, I also heard the hated voice of a woman insistently demanding my presence.